The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (20 page)

 “I’m certain they were……” Eimer began.

 But Iska interrupted  peremptorily before he could finish.
“You cannot be certain what they were, when you were so far way from them. I
think all we have done is to waste two days going in the wrong direction.”

 “No you haven’t,” cut in a voice from amongst the trees.

 Quarrel forgotten, three startled faces swung round in time
to see a familiar figure emerging from the bushes.

 
“Vesarion!
” gasped Sareth, and had to resist the
urge to leap from the saddle and throw her arms around him.

 Eimer, unconstrained by such inhibitions, slid to the
ground and grasped his tall friend delightedly by the shoulders. “Where have
you been?” he demanded. “We’ve been searching for you high and low. Where’s
Bethro?”

 “He’s safe,” Vesarion reassured him tiredly. “He’s in some
bushes just a short distance behind me. Do you have anything to eat? We’ve had
virtually nothing for two days.”

 Iska swiftly dismounted and began rummaging in the saddlebags.

 Eimer, who had now had a chance to take in his friend’s
appearance, remarked tactlessly: “What on earth has happened to you? You look
like you have been dragged through every bush in the forest.”

 Iska handed him some rye bread, which he wolfed into
avidly.

 “First things first,” he said between bites. “We should
find Bethro and get some food into him, then I’ll tell you our story. By the
way, is that my horse you are riding?”

 Bethro was found fast asleep on a bed of dried leaves and
could only be persuaded to awaken by the use of the magical word ‘food’. Eimer
suggested that they camp early that day, so they could light a fire and provide
a decent meal for the two wanderers. He led them to a slight promontory he had
discovered when off on a scouting mission earlier in the day. It arose above
the level of the surrounding woodland, giving a splendid view over the woolly
crowns of the trees. Its level top was grassy, innocent of all trees except one
spreading oak underneath which they camped. It also possessed the added
advantage of a small spring. While Vesarion took possession of his belongings
and went to the spring to make what repairs to his appearance he could, Sareth
lit a small fire in a hollow, carefully feeding it dry twigs in order not to
create smoke that might alert the Turog to their presence. She was not as adept
as Iska at producing a meal, and plain fare it might have been, but to at least
two of the company it was little short of a meal fit for the gods.

 The reunion was a merry one for all but one of those
present, with everyone talking at once, recounting their experiences, laughing
at the image of Bethro dragging Vesarion over the cliff by his belt. Even
Bethro’s victim began to see the funny side, now that it was all over. But
amongst all the chatter and laughter, one voice was silent. Sareth ate little
and said less. She tried to participate by smiling and nodding now and then,
but often without realising it, her gaze stared off into the quiet darkness
gathering around their fire, as she let the conversation wash over her, aware
only of the fact that the man she loved had barely spoken to her since his
return. She reviewed the past few days, when she had been forced to conceal
under a calm front the fact that inside she was sick with worry about him.
Every time Eimer had stopped to look into the ravine, she had been gripped by
the fear that he would find a body lying lifeless in the river. Her joy when
she had heard his voice that afternoon had been so intense that she had to
fight to hold back tears, but the ecstasy of the moment had been as brief as a
flash of lightning across the sky, and she had been plunged back into
heartbreak once more. He had spoken to her only once, to ask her, in that
formal, distant voice that so filled her with despair, if she was well. Left
with little other choice, she had replied equally stiltedly. Yet all the time,
in her heart she burned with the desire to tell him that his safe return
mattered more to her than anything else in the world. Only his forbidding aloofness
daunted her into keeping silent.

 Finding her own thoughts a bleak wasteland, Sareth returned
to the present to find that the conversation had drifted onto the subject of
Erren-dar.

 “I don’t know how his story ends,” Iska was saying. “News
of the great battle filtered through to Adamant, but after that – nothing.
Contact with the outside world has always been banned, but the King has his own
ways of obtaining information, and such reports usually wind up filed in the
secret section of the great library. Callis has the means to access them but we
have found nothing. So I have always wondered what happened after the battle.”

 She had been looking at Vesarion for answers but finding
that, as always, when the subject of Celedorn came up, he had withdrawn and was
staring absently into the fire, she turned to Bethro, who was only too willing
to talk about his favourite subject.

 “Well, I don’t know how much of the story you already know,”
he began. “But after fleeing from Adamant, the five companions found their way,
quite by accident, to the Monastery of the White Brotherhood, hidden deep in
the forests of the Forsaken Lands. It was here that Celedorn and Elorin were
married by the master of the order. The monastery vanished the moment they left
it and has never been found again, despite many searches for it.” He ignored a
sound of derision from Vesarion, that showed he was not as oblivious to what
was being said as he appeared.

 “After Celedorn, in his role as Erren-dar, killed the
Great-turog and the armies of the Destroyer were defeated, he and Elorin
returned to Ravenshold and restored order to a barony that had been lawless for
a long time.”

 “Thanks to Celedorn and his brigands,” muttered Vesarion.

 “They say,” continued Bethro, “that the love between them
was one of the greatest romances of the age, for it was Elorin who healed the
bitterness in Celedorn which had lead him to his life as a renegade and she enabled
him to find the greatness of heart to become Erren-dar.” He sighed
sentimentally. “How I wish I had lived in those days of valour and
enchantment.”

 “Were they happy together?” Iska asked, fascinated.

 “Indeed they were. They had a son, Berendore, Vesarion’s
father, and for twenty years Westrin was a place of peace and happiness but
then….. then one day, Elorin grew ill. Celedorn was distraught and in
desperation summoned every physician in the land, even ones from as far away as
the Isles of Kelendore, but it was no good, they could do nothing for her.” He
looked kindly at Iska, hanging on his every word. “And now, my dear, we go into
the realms of legend, for nothing is known for sure, not even by Queen Triana.
They say that one glittering winter’s day, when a cold sun shone on a light
covering of snow, Celedorn wrapped Elorin in a warm fur cloak, and taking her up
before him on his horse, rode off into the forest with her and never came back.
The only trace of them that was ever found was a brief note in Celedorn’s
handwriting found in his study, commending his nineteen year old son to King
Andarion’s care. Some say that he took her to the chasm at the Serpent’s Throat
and together they plunged into the void, unable to bear the thought of being
parted. Others say – and this is the explanation that I personally prefer –
that they returned to the Monastery of the White Brotherhood where they had
been so happy together and live there still, untouched by time.”

 Iska sighed. “That is a wonderful story, Bethro, and
strangely it makes me more determined than ever to recover the sword. So much
that is good and beautiful and brave is woven into its history, that I feel
most strongly that it must be returned to its rightful place in Eskendria. Now
that we are all together again, we must make haste to Adamant.”

 “Nonsense,” said a sharp voice. “We are not going off on
some fool’s errand. We are returning to Eskendria in the morning.”

A little startled, they all looked at Vesarion. A certain
steely quality in his eyes left no one in any doubt that he was deadly serious.

 “You do not intend to recover the sword?” Iska asked,
incredulously.

 “No,” he replied brusquely. “Forgive me if I remain
unconvinced by your recital.”

 “But how can this be?” Iska exclaimed. “You are the heir of
Erren-dar. The sword is rightfully yours. How can you not wish to recover it?”

 “Permit me to introduce a measure of reality into this conversation,”
he replied acidly. “Perhaps instead of going off into some imaginary realm, we
should look at the facts. Firstly, we have only your word for it that you are
who you say you are, and given that you have already deceived Bethro, your
credentials are not good in that regard. Secondly, even if your story were
true, we are ill-equipped to travel through such dangerous and unknown
territory. We have only three horses between five of us and only enough
provisions for another day or two.”

 “I have Ferron’s bow,” Eimer offered. “I can hunt.”

 But Vesarion, the bit well and truly between his teeth now,
ignored the interruption. “You also tell me that something has been following
you through the forest, that it even left my horse tied to a tree for you to
find. Does no one else find that disturbing? And I haven’t even begun to talk
about the Turog yet.”

 “Em,” said Bethro timidly. “If I might intervene. I find
your arguments most compelling but in the interests of completeness, I must
offer one thing in support of Iska’s story – this.” He produced from his pocket
the small gold signet ring with the snake engraved upon it. “I’m afraid I
forgot about it until now. If you recall, back in Sorne, I said there was
something familiar about the symbol. In fact I have just remembered that a
coiled snake is the symbol of the house of Parth.”

 He returned the ring to Iska, who placed it on her third
finger where it fitted perfectly. Encouraged by Bethro’s intervention, she
began to plead her cause anew, arguing with Vesarion’s decision, ably and
vehemently supported by Eimer.

 Bethro said nothing further, torn in two opposing directions.
The thought of returning to his comfortable study in Addania was tugging
against his love of the legend of Erren-dar and his guilt that his laxity had permitted
the sword to be stolen. However, remembering the danger and hunger he had endured
in the ravine, remembering the shrieks of the Turog as they had pursued him, reluctantly
he was coming to Vesarion’s opinion. He believed Iska’s story but he agreed
that they were ill-prepared.

 Finally he summoned up the courage to suggest that they
return to Addania to obtain reinforcements before descending on Adamant with
the proper military forces – excluding one plump librarian.

 “Have you not been listening!” Iska cried. “No matter how
big the army is, it cannot breach the curtain of Adamant. The curtain can only
be destroyed by enchantment and none with that power now remain. The tear that
I found is tiny, barely enough for one person to squeeze through. An army would
be cut down man by man if it tried to use it. Our only advantage is secrecy. If
a hostile army descended on Parth, the sword would be spirited away to some
place where we can never find it. No, we must enter the Kingdom by stealth, and
just as the sword was stolen from its rightful owner, we must steal it back
again. Besides, my object was to recover the sword, not bring down my father’s
kingdom.”

 “It appears that your loyalties are divided,” observed
Vesarion, at his driest. “I was given the mission by the King to return you to
Addania and that is what I intend to do. I am also responsible for the safety
of the King’s daughter. How exactly am I supposed to fulfil that duty by taking
her deeper into the Forsaken Lands? We were lucky to escape the last Turog
attack. We cannot expect such good fortune again.”

 Eimer leaned forward, his earnest look illuminated by the
soft glow of the fire.

 “Vesarion, the entire kingdom is not safe if we do not
retrieve the sword. Do you not understand that? Do you not know that if our
country falls, there will be nowhere left to hide,  nowhere left to run to? There
will be nothing left but death and destruction. Even Ravenshold, the greatest
fortress in the Kingdom, will fall in ruins. We cannot let this happen.”

 “You seem very certain of this. Why?”

 Haltingly, realising that he was on weak ground, Eimer told
of his encounter with the spirit of the woods.

 “The spirit warned me that at all costs we must get the
sword back,” he concluded. “It warned me not to be deflected by those who might
wish to turn back. I have given a commitment to Iska that I will help her, and
I will not break it.”

 “A talking wooden head?” Vesarion repeated with scornful amusement.
“Perhaps you forget, Eimer, that I spoke to you just a few moments before all
this was supposed to have happened and I seem to recall that you were so drunk
you could hardly stand. Do you really expect me to take what you say as
credible evidence? A carving that spoke to you?
Really
?”

 “Do you not care that we are talking about your
grandfather’s sword?” demanded Iska.

 He turned to face her squarely. “When Bethro told you the
story of Celedorn a moment ago, what he neglected to mention was that before
his true identity was discovered, for ten years he was known as the Scourge of
the Westrin Mountains. He made Ravenshold into a den of thieves and criminals,
terrorising the mountain passes, raiding and pillaging everything that came
within his reach. He brought shame on the noble name of Westrin and although
many considered that he redeemed himself by his actions as Erren-dar, I cannot
forget the disgrace he brought on my family. So perhaps now you can understand
why the sword means less to me than you think it should. I accept that you
probably were not involved in the theft of the sword but I have orders from the
King to take you into custody and return you to Addania, and that is exactly
what I intend to do.”

 “We are not in Eskendria now,” said Eimer, with a dangerous
edge to his voice that his sister had not heard before. “We are in the Forsaken
Lands where the King’s writ does not run. You have no authority here. You have
no right to arrest Iska and if you attempt to do so, you will answer to me.”

 Everyone around the fire tensed, under no doubt that the
Prince’s challenge was in earnest. Only the object of his threat appeared
unmoved.

 “I do not answer to you, Eimer,” replied Vesarion coolly,
then added a little cruelly: “No one does.”

 The Prince, clearly stung by the retort, snapped: “You are
behaving like a fool, Vesarion. You indulge in cynicism when the fate of the
Kingdom hangs in the balance. All you care about is enforcing your will. Well,
I say again – you have no authority here.”

 By now all humour had gone from Vesarion’s face and his
blue eyes had grown hard.

 “No man speaks to me that way,” he said harshly. “Not even
a Royal Prince.”

 “Then perhaps it’s time they did.”

 The two men had started to rise a little ominously to their
feet, when Sareth, who had contributed nothing to the discussion, cut in
sharply: “You are both being foolish in that particularly male fashion. We are
small in number, deep in enemy territory, and you two want to fight each other!
Try to put your pride to one side and summon up a bit of sense.” She turned to
Vesarion, still staring tensely across the fire at the Prince. “Eimer is right.
My father’s fiat does not apply here. In the Forsaken Lands you are not Lord of
Westrin and Eimer and I can expect no special privileges because of our rank.
Even Bethro is no longer Keeper of Antiquities. Whatever position each of us
held in Eskendria is not relevant here. Here, in this wilderness, we are all
equals, each as valuable as the next, and as such, each person has the right to
decide his own fate. I suggest that the best way of resolving this disagreement
is to take a vote. We should all undertake to respect the outcome of that vote
no matter what our personal views might be. Are we agreed?”

 “A vote!” exclaimed Vesarion, as if he couldn’t believe
what he was hearing.

 “I realise that such a concept is foreign to one used to
exercising near absolute authority but even you must admit that it is the
fairest way to proceed. I mean, all authority needs force to back it up, so
what are you proposing to do with those who disagree with your wish to return
to Addania? Are you going to tie them up and carry them back? Or force them to
walk before you at sword point?”

 The last question was delivered mildly but was a home
thrust – and Vesarion knew it.

 “Very well,” he conceded, not at all pleased at being
cornered. “If only to prove that I am not the ogre that you all appear to take
me for, we will vote on the issue.” He glanced round the fire at  the circle of
faces, their attention fixed upon him. “Which of you are in favour of returning
to Eskendria?”

  Vesarion raised his hand, and a little reluctantly, so did
Bethro. Unsurprisingly, Eimer and Iska, sitting side by side, voted to go on to
Adamant. All eyes then turned to Sareth who had, so far, abstained.

 “Your decision, Sareth,” said Vesarion, watching her
closely.

 Briefly, she met his glance and read the strength of his mind
directed against her, willing her to respect his decision and she knew that she
was in the position that whatever she did, she would lose. She believed Iska’s
story, and did not doubt that it was imperative that the sword should be
recovered with all speed, but she knew that she had got herself into the
position that if she voted against him, Vesarion would see it as an act of
betrayal and his anger against her would be implacable. Yet, if she abandoned
the quest that her heart was telling her so urgently to follow, she was oddly
certain that she would regret it her whole life. She was also convinced that Queen
Triana’s assessment of their betrothal was correct – if they returned to
Addania, where he could busy himself with other things and have little time for
her, all hope for them would be lost. So with a swiftly beating heart, avoiding
his gaze fixed upon her, Sareth voted against him. She knew, that she was
leaving him no way out. Having given his word to respect the vote,  and he
would honour it no matter how much it went against the grain.

 Eimer released a sigh of relief, his brief flare of anger
gone, and showing unexpected generosity, offered Vesarion an escape route.

 “You need not come with us, if you do not wish to,” he
suggested. “I know your heart is not in this.”

 Vesarion remained staring accusingly at Sareth, who was
steadfastly refusing to meet his eye.

 “I have given my word,”  he replied flatly. “I will not
break it.”

 For a long time Vesarion lay awake that night, staring into
the dying embers of the fire, his emotions in unusual turmoil. He regarded
himself as a logical man, but all sorts of unfamiliar feelings, none of them
logical, jostled for predominance in his mind. Anger, hurt, betrayal and
beneath it all, in the unexplored depths, lurked a whisper of fear. He
suspected that their journey would test him in ways that he had never been
tested before and he was less than certain of the outcome.

 The only emotion that he fully recognised was a sense of anger
directed at Sareth. Clearly their betrothal meant nothing to her. She felt she
owed him no loyalty, no support – all of which boded ill for their future.
Considering the matter in a way he had never done before, he was forced to
admit that he didn’t understand her. He had thought her as coolly reasonable as
he was himself, anxious to get away from Enrick’s torment and appreciative of
the position that being Lady of Westrin would bestow. But her behaviour since
they had embarked on the chase had been erratic. Contrary to her unjust
accusation that he expected abject obedience, he was perfectly ready to listen
to her opinions but so, too, did he expect her to show consideration for his.
Instead, she had sided with her brother and that strange girl, and had left him
feeling betrayed. An uneasy impression that he had made a serious error, gnawed
at the edges of his consciousness. An uncomfortable feeling was beginning to
take shape, that the little girl who used to run around after him in the
palace, was now someone he simply didn’t recognise. In more ways than one, he
felt he no longer knew where he was going.

 So Vesarion tossed and turned, unavailingly searching for
answers, for a sense of direction.

 Finally he drifted off to sleep, unaware that just a few
feet from him, Sareth had let her tears soak silently into her sleeve before
she, too, succumbed to weariness.

 When Vesarion awoke, he was under the impression that he
had been asleep for many hours, but to his surprise it was still dark. The fire
still contained a few glowing embers. A few little worms of fire writhed their
way along the edges of the wood ash, just enough to cast a dim blush of light
over the figures of his sleeping companions. He lay still for a moment,
wondering what it was that had awoken him so suddenly. Then he heard someone
call his name.

 He sat up, looking towards Bethro and Eimer, for it had
been a man’s voice - but they were both asleep. Looking around in puzzlement,
with a start, his eyes distinguished in the dim glow of the fire, the outline
of a man sitting on a fallen tree-trunk at the edge of the light. Vesarion made
a snatch for his sword, lying in its scabbard beside him, but the man’s soft
laughter arrested the action.

 “No need to reach for your weapons, Vesarion,” the voice
said pleasantly. “I am unarmed and mean you no harm.”

 Vesarion glanced at his companions, but they were all still
fast asleep.